


The Crow-Flower

by CabiriaMinerva



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 03:27:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16673821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CabiriaMinerva/pseuds/CabiriaMinerva
Summary: According to Greek Mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.(Plato, "The Symposium")





	1. I. November, 1848

_I took the stars from my eyes, and then I made a map_  
_And knew that somehow I could find my way back_  
_Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too_  
_So I stayed in the darkness with you_

 

Florence + The Machine _, Cosmic Love_

 

 

**William**

  
  


It's his heart. How fitting, how cosmically, ironically fitting.

Of course it had to be his heart. What else did he expect, really? After all the ache and the crumbling, he had imagined that watching her falling in love and getting married would finally get the job done. He had almost hoped for it to break, at some point. Or maybe during the whole ordeal. When he had to walk right behind her, accompanying her to the man she would swear her loyalty, vow her eternal love, he had thought that death would probably be a more pleasant experience.

Well, and hasn't he finally the chance to see if he was right?

He could laugh, were it not for the stabbing pain that suddenly spreads in his chest. He knows it will past, at least this time. But for some eternally brief moments, all he is is pain.

He has known for a while, now. Some months... he doesn't recall exactly, but he feels his life slipping from his fingers and, to be honest, he is quite tired by now.

He has managed to see her once or twice just after he had that first, horrible crisis. He had to. When the pain had took over his entire body, overwhelming him and leaving him without breath, she had been his first and only thought. Her pale blue eyes, her soft smile. He had recovered, or so he had thought, but subconsciously, he had known already that the clock was ticking. So he had attended a soirée, and then a ball... didn't end up very well, with Emma accompanying him to Dover House in tears.

Not too long after, she had come to him. A gift, some words full of affection.

_She knew._

She had left so soon, but he had been almost relieved. He didn't want her to see him dying. Still doesn't.

So now he lies here, on the dormeuse on his studio at Brocket Hall. Watching the mechanical bird that she has given him as a gift. It plays Mozart, and it is most astonishing.

For a moment, it brings him back to more peaceful, entertaining days. When she would play the piano for him. Mozart, his favourite. He had felt so content, in those brief years. Seeing her almost everyday, riding with her in the park, talking about anything and everything. She would ask all sort of questions, from politics to frivolous gossip, and he would answer. Sometimes seriously, sometimes with an amused snort. But he would always humour her.

His lips twitch in the shadow of a smile.

_I find that happiness can always be recollected in tranquillity, Ma'am_ , he had once said to her.

He has had more than enough time to recollect his past happiness, in the last few months. As his energies slowly leave him, he finds himself more and more attached to those happy memories.

The first time she had called him  _Lord M_ .

The Coronation.

Their first dance together. Their last dance together. All the dances in between.

The way her eyes would sparkle when she smiled at him.

The quiet hours spent together, going through the boxes, explaining to her all she had to know about the Afghan situation, the votes that were being held at the House, the diplomatic visits.

The hurt on her face when he had rejected her.

That last thing, it still haunts him. Not because he thinks he was wrong, but because he wishes he could have said yes.  _Yes, I will be your companion. Yes, you have my heart. I gave it to you a long time ago._

For he still remembers, above all, the spark of recognition that made his soul buzz the first time he saw her, as if their souls had known each other since the dawn of time. The warmth that had wrapped him in that moment, the feeling of his old, cracked heart coming back to life.

He sighs. If only they had lived in a different world, a world where she was not a young, splendid Queen and he was not her old, tainted Prime Minister.

But they had not. So even if his soul _did_ recognize hers, admitting he had a soul to start with, there was nothing he could have done differently.

His eyes sting with tears that he is trying to hold back. But he really is tired, right now, and they overpower him. He feels the dampness on his sensitive, fragile skin.

With a moan of pain, he turns a bit on the dormeuse, trying to make himself a little more comfortable.

As the song of the mechanical bird begins to fade, he wonders if she has liked the flowers he has sent this morning.

Crow-flowers.

White ones and pink ones.

Some consider them sacred. Especially the white ones.

He is not a man of God, never has been, but he understands why people might see them as sacred.

They emanate a sense of purity and beauty, of god-like serenity. Which is why he wanted to send her that enormous bouquet. Some may find it exaggerated, some may even use it to let murmurs of scandal re-emerge in the quiet halls of Buckingham.

But he _had_ to send those flowers to her, as if to make certain she _knows_. For he has the strangest of feelings, as if those are the last flowers she will ever receive from Brocket Hall, from him.

He smiles softly while thinking at her lips curling into a smile, taking in the delicate beauty of the flowers.

There is such beauty in the world.

The mechanical bird stops his singing and the silence in the room is interrupted only by the crackling of the fire.

For the last time, a breath exhales from his dry lips, and his glassy eyes stare at the mechanical bird.

 

* * *

**Victoria**

  
  


The news comes as no surprise, but still it hurts. Deeply.

She dismisses the manservant who has brought it and waits until the doors are closed behind him before allowing her lips to tremble.

He had been already severely ill when she had brought him her silly gift – a mechanical bird singing Mozart that, she had hoped, would bring him comfort... – in an attempt to say her goodbyes to the man who had believed in her when no one would. She didn't tell him that Albert had told her about his illness, but she suspected he'd seen it in her eyes, shiny from unshed tears, and hear it in her hesitant voice.

Seeing him so weak, the shadow of the man that still held part of her heart, had been difficult. But she wouldn't have forgiven herself for not saying goodbye, even if she had hoped against all odds that he would recover. For how could the sun keep rising every morning, the tides keep bathing the cold sandy beaches, the birds keep flying in the clear November sky if he was gone?

But he is gone anyway. And hearing the words spilling from the valet lips has felt like a rain of daggers in her chest.

She has been so preoccupied with the birth of Louise and her confinement, which is always such a torture, that time has gone by so quickly since that last visit.

As the first tear slowly draws a damp path on her pale cheek, a sudden sense of guilt washes over Victoria, wrapping her tightly. She has been too self-absorbed and has forgotten her most loyal friend, her mentor, her...

An agonizing sob escapes her lips.

No. Never. She could never forget. Not _him_.

Even if distracted, he was always there, in the back of her mind, with a smug smile when she said something witty, a sharp remark when she refused to see sense, a proud look when she overcame yet another obstacle.

And he still is, somehow. Still there, somewhere, in her mind.

In her heart.

Where he had been relegated when he had been banished from her life. She still recalls her fury at the suggestion that she should stop writing to him, after everyone had already done everything in their power to make sure he would not physically be in her presence.

Their relationship has been littered with forced separation and heartbreak. For she was a Queen and he could never be more than her Prime Minister.

And she loves Albert, she really does. Theirs is a happy marriage, with its ups and downs, like all marriages. Still, a happy union. Blessed with so many children – too many, she often thinks.

But she still remembers the first time she saw him, bending his knee and kissing her hand, and casually dropping some witty remarks. When he had offered to be her Private Secretary, she had been somehow scared. Scared that he would try and keep her prisoner, a pretty doll with a crown in the hands of yet another puppeteer. But in her depths, she felt something akin to recognition. As if she already knew him but had somehow forgotten.

Now, she absent-mindedly brushes her fingers on the flowers on her desk.

Crow-flowers.

White and pink.

A floral arrangement so beautiful that her heart had skipped a beat when it had arrived from Brocket Hall.

After her visit, he had started sending her flowers again, now and then.

Delicate and rare flowers.

A soft white orchid.

Two fragrant Chocolate cosmos.

A single crimson Middlemist Cammelias.

But today, the manservant brought eleven, fragile _ranunculus._

She had wondered briefly about their vulgar name. Crow-flowers. Crows are very similar to rooks, aren't they? But she had soon dismissed her thoughts, too busy reading her dispatches and watching over her children.

Only now, in the wake of the news of her death, she realizes that eleven are also the years that have passed since they met.

It is only a coincidence, that much she knows, but she can't help but wonder... maybe he woke up feeling that his time had come? Maybe he wanted to say his goodbyes, too...

Maybe...

The tears are now freely flowing on her face, and if anyone were to enter her study and see her so dishevelled they'd think...

«I don't care what they would think!» she vehemently cries out while jumping to her feet and sweeping the papers away from her desk in an angry gesture.

«What other people think has brought me nothing but pain. Brought _us_ nothing but pain.» Her voice fades in the silence of the room.

Were it not for the fear of scandals, of the _opinion_ of those surrounding her, maybe he would have accepted her... Maybe, if she had been more sure on her feet, less willing to bend her will to please stiff politicians reeking of stale...

Blinking, her mind numb and tired with crying, she thinks that if she could start again, have another chance, she wouldn't sacrifice even the smallest morsel of her heart. Or so she hopes.

 


	2. II. April, 1864

 

_Sometimes I get so tense_  
_But I can't speed up the time_  
 _But you know, love_  
 _There's one more thing to consider_  
  
_Said, woman, take it slow_  
 _And things will be just fine_  
 _You and I'll just use a little patience_

  


Guns 'n' Roses, _Patience_

  


**Victoria**

  


She loathes what she is about to do. Her maid is fixing her bonnet, chirping about how wonderfully clear the sky is.

As if she cares about the sky. Or the blossoming flowers in the gardens.

She is only doing this because of Uncle Leopold's insistence. _You must show yourself to your subjects, Victoria. I know that you only want to hide away in your palace and mourn him, I did the same after losing my dear Charlotte... But it's been years since Albert's passing, and you_ need _to be seen. You are not only a wife mourning her beloved husband. You are a Queen. Do not forget this, Victoria._

And so, she has agreed to visit the gardens of the Royal Horticultural Society and take a drive through London. But she does so with an aching heart.

It's not only because of her loss, which she is sure cannot be forgotten nor healed, but also because of what she sees every day in the mirrors of her rooms.

The small, somewhat even childlike woman she had been for so long has now been replaced by someone she doesn't recognize any more. After Albert's death she has retreated into her palace, into herself, indulging in pastries and biscuits and anything that could fill the void within.

Nothing would do, of course, but she couldn't seem to find the strength to _just stop_.

She blames life. For giving her so few men who love her, who understand her.

She blames death. For claiming them too soon.

Her father.

Her dear Lord M.

And now, Albert.

She feels abandoned. Alone. _Lonely._

But, as much as she hates to admit it, Uncle Leopold is right.

She needs to be appear in public, and a voice at the back of her mind, a voice she thought forgotten, tells her that _they_ would want that as well. Especially Lord M.

He always reminded her of her own strength, even when she thought she didn't have any left. And somehow he still does.

With them in mind, she proceeds to visit the gardens.

  


Half a hour later, she finds herself incapable of focusing on the words of the Duke of Buccleuch, the man who has become President of the Royal Horticultural Society now that Albert is gone. She tried listening to him, but her eyes can't seem to fix on his thin lips.

The reason of her distraction is so futile that she is almost embarrassed. But mostly, she should be ashamed of it.

For in the charity so dear to her husband, her eyes are drawn to a shrub of gardenias. And her mind can't help but turn to memories of _him_.

She absent-mindedly nods to the Duke of Buccleuch, who is eagerly recounting about the newest acquisitions of the Society – some plants, or flowers... she wouldn't know. Images of the days when she was young and alive and dancing with gardenias fixed on her corset swirl in her mind.

She swallows.

_Lord M._

_Brocket Hall._

_All those flowers._

Behind the shrub, there is a small flowerbed overflowing with white ranunculus and tears prickle her eyes.

She doesn't really know she is moving until her fingers, now chubby from all the pastries, close around the stem of a single flower, severing it. Her pale blue eyes briefly rise on Sir Buccleuch, who is blatantly bewildered. «You must forgive me for ignoring the rules of the Garden, Duke.» Her gazes goes back to the small flower in her hand. _A hand he wouldn't be able to recognize, now. Belonging to a woman he wouldn't be able to recognize,_ she thinks bitterly. «But it appears my hands have a mind of their own.» She smiles, tenderness softening her face. «Your Garden is really beautiful, Duke. It reminds me of a dear friend, very passionate about botany.» Her smiles falters. «He would have loved to see how beautiful this Garden has become.»

After some awkward reassurances ( _«Everything in the Garden is at your disposal, Ma'am, to do as you wish»_ ) and the benevolent promise to return to visit the Gardens, the Duke takes his leave.

The flower is still in her hand when the open carriage rides through the streets of London, parading her around. Crowds of people cheering, calling her name... there were times when these displays of affection would make her heart melt, pride bubbling in her belly.

Now, she feels constrained and only wishes it would end soon. Still, she forces herself to smile and wave.

So many faces, so many voices.

Women with newborns, hoping to get her blessing.

Man with worn-out hats and mahogany cans.

Children with thumbs in their mouths.

A young man of maybe thirteen, his eyes green and quiet, his hair dark and uncombed. Thin lips pressed into a lopsided smile. A shabby brown waistcoat, an old mended shirt and plain trouser indicates that he is just a simple street boy, maybe an errand boy, stopping to see his Queen before running home.

Her heart misses a beat and her soul feels something like recognition. It is a strange sensation, as she is certain that she has never met this young man before.

Maybe it is his youth that strikes her. Maybe the nostalgia for a time that she has lost forever. In any case, her hands (which, she now thinks, must truly have a mind of their own) move before she can understand what causes the tingle of recognition and stretch towards the boy, offering him the flower.

His green eyes light up at her gift, and a warmth she thought forgotten invades her chest. The corner of her lips twitches and curve up.

Maybe today wasn't the worst idea ever.

  


**William**

  


London is in turmoil.

Today is the Queen's first public appearance since her husband's death.

William had never really liked the Prince, found him too serious, too... too... self-important. But his Ma had hit him with a wooden spoon when he had once said so out loud, so he had kept further comments for himself.

Still, he wasn't saddened by his death. He can't really explain why, it is just a spontaneous distaste for the man.

The Queen is another thing altogether.

He has always admired her, though his Ma doesn't really approve of her independence. She says that she should have let her husband be the King and do her job as wife and mother. He thinks she is very dignified. And strong. He has seen her once before, her expression serious, a frown on her face.

He was maybe six, but he remembers well the the anticipation, the thrill of seeing her form in the distance. Prince Albert was at her side, stern and humourless as always.

His brother has mocked him for admiring her, singing a stupid made-up song about _little Willy fancying the old woman_. He got, oh, so angry. He doesn't _like_ her that way, she is so old and her hair are grey and she is always so serious.

But he _admires_ her.

And so, today William has decided to stop by after his errands and wait for her passage. He is excited. The streets are crawling with people, all waiting to see the Queen who has hidden away in her Palace. Some of them are anxious, happy even, but others keep spilling spiteful words from their lips, making him tremble with anger.

Sometimes he wonders why he cares so much. Maybe it is the fact that even if she is so small and so many people think she is weak, she is still the greatest Queen in the world, giving him hope that he too, one day, will be someone important. Even if he is small and no one believes in him.

When she finally appears, he sighs, relieved. He should be home by now, therefore he is certain that his Ma will punish him; it would have been a pity, to be punished for nothing.

She is austere-looking, clad in black and with a blatantly fake smile. Still, he admires her.

As William is extremely thin (not for lack of food, as many might think, as he is the son of a butcher, and there is always food on his plate), he manages to slip through the crowd, reaching the edge of the kerb.

When the carriage approaches, something unimaginable happens. The Queen _looks at him_.

At first, he thinks she must be staring at something behind him – for what could he possibly have done to attract the Queen's attention?

But no, the Queen is unmistakeably _looking at him_. Her pale blue eyes, the white rimmed with red, are fixed on him. Funny, he has never seen Her Majesty so close, but he could swear to have seen these eyes before. If only he'd remember _where_.

Then she is stretching towards him, something in her fingers.

A flower.

A white flower.

He doesn't know what kind of flower it is, but it is beautiful, with soft, indented petals. William timidly extends his hand to take it. He is simply incredulous.

A soft smile brightens her features, but it is gone as quick as it came.

The carriage passes by, the crowd closing behind it.

He cannot know this, not now, but he will never see her again. In a few years he will board a ship to the West Indies, hoping to find his fortune. And he will find it – some, at least – working at the docks, checking and doing inventories of the cargo shipping to England.

In a clear morning of 1895 he will be found in his room, another victim of the epidemic of cholera that will wipe out thousands of people in both India and Europe.

In his rigid hand, a dried, white flower.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it took me a while to write this, but to my defence, I am on holiday, so that is a huge distraction.. still, I hope you've enjoyed this chapter! As Always, all feedbacks are more than welcome :) see you soon!


	3. III. January, 1901

 

 _Slowly, then all at once._  
_The dark clouds depart,_  
_And the damage is done._  
_So pardon the dust_  
_While this all settles in._  
_With a broken heart,_  
_Transformation begins._

 

Sleeping at last, _Sorrow_

 

**William**

  


_Light._

_Yes, this must be_ light _._

_And something else, something squeezing his chest._

Pain _?_

_He doesn't want to feel this. It's like being ripped apart. He tries to open his mouth to let his unwillingness to go on with whatever this is well known. But his tiny lips are barely moving._

_Blue._

_Cold._

_He is tired, and if he could_ wish _, if he were old enough to wish, he'd wish to come back from where he came only moments ago._

_Dark._

_Warm._

_Comfortable._

_But something is squeezing him, forcing him to to leave._

_Someone's screaming. He knows this voice. It's the same one that's been singing to him in the long, lazy months he has spent in the darkness. But it is not singing any more. It is screaming._

_Pain._

_Another voice, strong, demanding._ «Push! Push Amelia, just another little push!»

_Something is squeezing him again. But somehow, he knows it is too late. He is too tired, too weak._

When the midwife is finally able to extract him, his tiny body is lifeless, blue and already cooling down. The umbilical cord twisted tightly around his neck. She turns to the exhausted young mother, who begins to sob when realization washes over her.

Suddenly, the chime of bells resonate through London. Amelia blinks, barely listening to the priest who has hurried into the room to christen him conditionally, in a desperate attempt to save his eternal soul.

_Ego te baptizo..._

Her firstborn hasn't even lived long enough to be named, but he can't be baptized without a name.

… _in nomine Patris..._

So she blurts out the first name that comes to her mind.

… _et Fili..._

« _William_.»

… _et Spiritus Sancti._

 

The bells do not stop chiming, and Amelia absent-mindedly wonders if London is grieving with her.

Voices reach the room from the street.

_The Queen is dead, long live the King._

  


**Victoria**

  


After all, life has given her more men to love, and who love her. Or so she hopes. After Albert's death, there was dear John. He helped her, giving her support and strength when she thought there was none left. But he too, died too soon.

Life is as generous with its gifts as it is exacting with its sacrifices.

Then came Karim. Oh, her dear good Munshi. For a fleeting moment, he has given her the illusion of a second youth. Learning Hindu, eating curry, listening to stories of an exotic country she is Empress of, but has never been able to visit.

She knows that many do not approve – when did they ever approve of any man in her life, after all? They sure as hell didn't approve of John Brown, with her own children spreading gossip about them and the adjoining rooms and the medals!

They didn't approve of Albert, too. Not at first. A German prince was frown upon.

And Lord M... no, no one approved of him. If only they knew how much her heart was still full of love for the man who had helped her step out of her gilded cage and become the woman that she was now...

_I believe when you give your heart it will be without hesitation. But you cannot give it to me._

Still, she had done it.

 _Like a rook, I mate for life,_ he had said. She knows, now, that it was but a ruse to push her away, to save her from any scandal her impulsivity might have caused. Still, she recognizes some truth to those words. For she truly meant what she had said that distant day: she had given him her heart well before acknowledging it.

Even afterwards, with Albert, with her children, with John or with Karim... she has cared deeply for all of them, some she has even loved. But her heart was not theirs to take.

And now, now that the age has taken over her, that she is old, tired and disillusioned, her heart is nothing but a dusty fossil crumbling under her fingertips. Letting out memories, recalling warmth and laughters that she thought forgotten.

She has missed him so much, her dear Lord M.

A single tear escapes her eye.

_Would you have approved of my Reign, my Empire, I wonder?_

She aches for something, but at first she cannot remember what it is. A flash of white, a smell of spring and youth.

Her lips curl a little.

There is a book among those she has kept close to her in all her years. A small, leather-bound book. It smells of dust and, though it is among her fondest possessions, its pages haven't been browsed in years. Not since 1848. That last occasion, she had put between its pages eleven flowers. Once white and pink, now probably of a soft brown.

Crow-flowers.

_Ranunculus._

_His flowers._

Her fingers tremble, trying to rise from the soft sheets on her bed. Her heart beats quicker for a few seconds, maybe with the hope of seeing him again after such a long time.

 _Will he recognize me?_ She numbly wonders.

Her fingers still, and so does her heart.

_The Queen is dead, long live the King._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, still on Holiday… but not for long now, so before I'll go back home (I'd say happily, but, well.. you know, I'd rather stay on Holiday a bit longer *sigh*) I thought I'd post a new chapter before falling into a severe case of "post-vacation blues"... 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it and I'd like to wish you all happy holidays, wherever you are :)  
> Stay tuned!


	4. IV. July, 1918

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_I never made promises lightly_

_And there have been some that I've broken_

_But I swear in the days still left_

_We'll walk in fields of gold_

 

Sting, _Fields of Gold_

 

**Victoria**

  


The war has been long. She was but a girl when it started, four years ago. Now, she is a woman. Or so she tells herself when she forces herself to suppress her agitation and unrest. She is a woman and must act like one.

So when yet another morning the postman arrives empty handed, she manages to force her trembling lips into a fierce smile and reassures him. «Tomorrow, maybe.»

Well, of course it's not _him_ she is reassuring, but it's easier this way. Easier to maintain a steady face when her father is talking about the war, about all those young men making _their Country proud with their sacrifice_. Easier to nod with a soft smile on her lips when her mother hints at _the son of the minister, have you noticed how he looks at you? I am sure he would love to come to dinner, why don't we invite him and his parents one of these nights?_

Easier to resist the temptation to open the bottom drawer of her night stand and let her fingers lightly run on his letters, kept together with a pale blue ribbon.

The last one was dated May 3rd.

Two months.

«Maybe tomorrow,» she repeats while the postman gives her a look full of pity and leaves. «I am sure it is only a matter of time,» she mutters, unheard.

When she goes back to the kitchen, where her mother is supervising the work of the kitchen maids and Mrs. Cook, who is funnily enough _their_ cook, she pretends not to see the looks they all exchanges upon her arrival.

She will not be pitied.

And he will come back. He promised. Over and over again.

Her William.

Even though he was a bit older than his sister Emily and her, he had always liked her company. At first it was innocent, obviously, as he was already fifteen when they had moved in the neighbourhood, and she was but nine years old. A plump child with wide blue eyes and a stubbornness that could tear down a wall.

He would take them to the pond on a Sunday afternoon, laughing while watching them chase the ducks. Or he would listen to their blabbering when they came back from school – at least, he would pretend to be listening. Sometimes, when he came back late at night from his school – a place where he learnt stuff about laws and trials and other boring stuff – he would just read one of his books in front of the fire while the two girls played with dolls.

Then, suddenly, almost without them noticing it, things had changed. He had become a young man, his dark curls cut shorter, his green eyes paying more attention and his voice somewhat hoarser. His body had changed as well, and she had started to blush when he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and loosened the first few buttons of his shirt, allowing her a peak of dark curls and smooth skin.

She too had become a young woman, her long brown hair free on her small figure, her dark lashes hiding her eyes for just the smallest of moments when he would say something that made her laugh. Her mother had to buy her new dresses for her new body, a body he started noticing against his will. For she was just like his little sister, only that she wasn't, and that she was all of a sudden fifteen and looking at him behind those lashes and with her pink lips curved into a shy smile.

Emily had been most amused by the evolution of her odd trio. Obviously, she had not only encouraged it, but had actively helped them realizing they were falling in love. «If it weren't for me, you would still be avoiding each other's gaze and stuttering while offering some tea,» she used to laugh before the war started.

But then, the war _had_ started.

Victoria was barely sixteen. William was already twenty-two.

It was inevitable, really. The days had passed in unspoken wait, until one day he too was called to defend his homeland.

Before leaving for the front, he had brought her on a picnic on the hills. Their laughter had been tainted with sadness, their words weaved with promises. William had given her flowers, small and white and fragrant. Crow-flowers, he had called them. _Like the ones we'll have at our wedding, upon my return_. Then, he had kissed her. A soft, pure kiss on her pink lips. Sealing their vows.

She had put them in a book to dry. And at night she checks them, taking comfort in their presence.

_Tomorrow, maybe._

* * *

Another day passes and now, while waiting for the postman, she thinks back to the dried flowers in her room and her blue eyes shines in the fine morning air.

«Miss Victoria.»

A soft voice brings her back to this moment and place. Her heart races fast, knowing that the postman would never say much unless he had...

«I have something for you.»

God, yes, she has waited those words for so long! Still... something in his voice makes the fine hair on the nape of her neck stand up on end.

She turns with an expectant look on her delicate face, but the smile that has already started curving her lips freezes.

«I am sorry, Miss Victoria. I really am,» says the man handing her a small envelope framed with black.

  


**William**

  


He didn't feel a thing, really. The grenade had been so sudden, so forceful. He had barely had the time to understand what was happening.

Just a bright light, a warm embrace.

Then, nothing.

Now his body lies in a field that was once covered in flowers and grass, where people would grow wheat to feed their family. The blood of others has fertilized its dirt before his did.

Other boys, barely men, who thought about the people they had left back home. Mothers with newborns on their side, fathers whose pride was eaten away by worry.

Young girls of barely sixteen with blue eyes and a stubbornness that could move mountains... but couldn't prevent a war from happening. Not in this life, maybe not in any life.

Right before the explosion, his mind had briefly gone to that last day together.

White flowers.

Small.

Beautiful and innocent just like her.

Pollen filling the air, almost snowing through the sun rays.

It had been such a lovely day and he had spent it listening to her laughters, studying every little detail of her face: her soft, pink skin, blushing after a compliment or an innuendo; her pale blue eyes following his every movement; her white teeth, biting her plump lips after he had murmured the promises they were both so afraid of making, still needed to be made.

_I will come back._

_I swear._

_I will._

_And then..._

He had given her flowers, too. A small bouquet of Crow-flowers. _Like the ones we'll have at our wedding, upon my return_.

_A rain of flowers, and we'll have cake, and laughter again. All will be well._

But of course, the promises were but empty words, unarmed against a war that was being fought on the corpses of young men full of hopes and dreams just like him.

He had written to her, constantly. Every scrap of paper, every candle end, every pencil he could find, he'd use to write to her.

His beautiful Victoria, bearing the name of a great Queen – and the same innate dignity.

Sometimes, when the horror of wars were weighing on him to a point that life itself seemed almost unbearable, thoughts of her had been the only thing keeping him from simply giving up.

But not now. Not even the memory of her radiant smile could do much against a grenade.

And so his body lies in a field that was once covered in flowers and grass, ash raining on his lifeless body.

One day, far in a future he will never get to see, there will be children running among this same field, playing and falling and laughing among the patches of small, white flowers covering what is now but dirt and blood and broken dreams of weddings and pale blue eyes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! First of all, I'd like to apologize for disappearing, but I really had to take some time off to take care of some personal business… so thank you for your patience and understanding :)  
> Secondly… well, I hope you've liked this chapter!


	5. V. March, 1927

 

_There is love in your body but you can't hold it in_   
_It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin_   
_Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks_   
_And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts_

_There is love in your body but you can't get it out_   
_It gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth_   
_Sticks to your tongue and shows on your face_   
_That the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste_

Florence + The Machine, _Hardest of hearts_

  


**Victoria**

It is the smallest creature Victoria has even seen. Delicate skin reddened by the effort, blue eyes squeezed because of the light, pink lips smacking, tasting the air around them.

Everyone around her keeps moaning and talking and complimenting her for what they are calling her masterpiece. Had she the energies, she would huffs and tell them that she isn't sure it was worth the effort. The pain. Instead, she lowers her eyes on the small bundle she has been forced to hold for what seems like an eternity.

«She looks like a monkey,» she finally murmurs when she is alone with her husband. «Is it normal that she looks like a monkey?»

He chuckles before leaning down to kiss her forehead. «You're both tired. I'm sure you'll see her in a different light after a good nap. And I'm sure she'll look less of a monkey as well when she's rested. Here, give her to me.» He stretches out his arms and frees her of her burden.

She watches as Albert paces around, calm, murmuring sweet nothings to their firstborn. Her lips tremble as the guilt engulfs her. Even though she _knows_ she should be happy, enjoying the moment in spite of the pain that still lingers in her muscles. Instead, her mind races back to a spring afternoon, pollen slowly fluctuating in the lukewarm air.

A lifetime ago. Dreams by now gone, just as the quiet boy whose smile she still conjures up while she sleeps, in a whole different kind of dreams.

Victoria swallows and her eyes go to the man she has married – more or less willingly. It has taken her mother seven years to persuade her to accept a marriage proposal, after a while it wasn't even important _who_ she accepted, as long as she did. When she had finally yielded, accepting Albert, the educated though a bit boring son of a pharmacist, her mother had cried from joy.

Victoria had simply cried. Emily at her side, comforting her.

_He wouldn't have wanted you to be alone, unhappy. You need someone, a husband... to love you... honour you, cherish you._

_I know he would have want that._

_He loved you very much, sometimes I think even more than he did anyone else. But he is gone, Vicky. He will not come back. It's been years, and you need to move on. I'm not saying you should forget him, I don't even think that's possible, but you need to allow your life to simply go on. Will you try to be happy with Albert?_

_For William?_

At her wedding, she had insisted on the flowers. She would only accept the sight of Crow-flowers: in the church, at the house, in her hands.

White.

Small.

Beautiful and full of broken promises and lost innocence.

It's not that she doesn't care for Albert – she does. She just cares in a different way. She might even go as far as to say she loves him. But it is a different kind of love.

Albert is kind and gentle, and loves to treat her as if she is some kind of fragile, ethereal creature. Which she is not, obviously, but sometimes it isn't so bad to have someone pampering you.

He is a good man. A generous man. And he already is a better parent than she could ever learn to be.

But he is not William.

With his sardonic smile and the caustic jokes, his love of flowers and strong opinions on the politics of the Country. His green eyes and the dark, rebel curls always casually trying to hide them.

Still, Emily has tried to convince her that just because it is different, it may still be love. And she believes that, too. It's just a bit difficult, from time to time. Thinking what could have been if only...

She sighs.

«Are you alright?» Albert's concerned voice penetrates in her thoughts, bringing her back to the present.

«Yes, just slightly tired. Can we go home, now?»

«Oh, yes, I think...» He looks around, confused. «The nurse said...» He takes two steps into the hall, his hand covering their child as if trying to shield her from the world outside. «Yes, doctor! Could we please...?»

She sees him nodding, then coming back into the room. «The doctor will be here shortly with the papers, then we'll go, my love.» With few, long steps he reaches her bed and leans down to kiss her. Sweetly, softly. «Do you need some help?»

«I'm fine, just hold her while I get up and I get dressed. I can't wait to arrive at home and sleep in my bed without people parading around the room as if they've never seen a baby before.»

Albert chuckles, then becomes serious again when he sees her grasping a chair. «Are you sure you are alright? Maybe we should stay here a while longer...»

«Absolutely not. It's been three days since I gave birth, I'm fine, just a bit dizzy.»

The pregnancy has taken its toll on her, and she knows it. She just doesn't know to what length. Right now, she only knows that she is exhausted.

It will probably pass, just as her mother has told her over and over again. Or at least, this is what she tells herself. How could she know that the pregnancy and the birth have been too much for her tiny body, a body she has neglected for too many years, barely eating and drinking strange concoctions her mother brought her home from this or that herbalist's shop or pharmacy, hoping it would cure her sadness.

_It's good for you, this time I'm sure. Mrs. Ellesmere told me her mother drank this twice per day to cure her ailments._

In reality, whatever was in the smelly concoctions she had drunk, had only weakened her body. What was intended as a remedy for her heartbreak, was a combination of dirty water, various herbs grown near a factory that spilled oil on the ground and whatever was handy.

As she walks the steps to exit the hospital, she doesn't know that in one and a half year, when she's back to give birth to her second child, another girl that will take her name, her weakened body will give up the fight it has endured until now and she won't even see her second-born open her eyes, hear her scream at the top of her lungs to announce her arrival to the world.

Right now, she feels the sun rays warming her pale skin and the soft breeze ruffling her long hair, nothing more.

  


**William**

William runs.

He runs, like any child would run when he is happily playing after a long winter.

It's a warm day and the air is full of fluffy pollen, whirling around like snow in a storm. His mother told him not to go too far from home, and he's trying to refrain from simply running away, following the pollen and the butterflies, hiding in the crowd on the streets, accepting any adventure that might come his way.

Still, the hospital is at an acceptable distance. Not too close to his home and, especially, to his mother's attentive gaze, but not too far from it as well. Just the end of the road. Partially around the corner if he really wanted to run _around_ the building.

Right now, he's dangling near the entrance, watching people come in and out from the tall, white building. William likes to watch people, to observe them, to study them.

Sometimes, people come out from the hospital with eyes gleaming with tears, wrapped in black clothes. Some other times, patients exit the doors accompanied by their loved ones, a small smile on their lips while they slowly climb down the steps, crutches under their armpits.

Then, there are William's favourites: the families bringing home their newborns. He doesn't really know why, but the tired smiles on the new parents, the trepidation that transpires from every movement, every step, every small touch on the blanket tightly wrapped around the babies... it all makes him somewhat happier. As if a new life had made the entire world a little bit more interesting, giving him future play companions (as it is, William is too young to understand that he will not play forever, that the afternoons spent running and playing hide and seek will soon be just a distant memory). And today, there seem to be a lot of new companion entering the world. Maybe, he thinks, it's the spring that makes them want to join the living, tempting them with blossoming trees, the warm weather and colourful butterflies.

As one of the above-mentioned butterflies flutters in the air around his head, making him giggle, William barely notices the young family that climbs down the stairs with a small bundle in their arms. He sees only a flash of blue eyes that reminds him of the summer sky, pale and yet warm, a glimpse of dark hair framing a porcelain-like face, a soft smile that gives him the strangest feeling, as if he already _knew_ it, making his own little heart flutter like the butterfly he is chasing.

In a few moments, he has already forgotten about it, lost in his boyish play.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you all for reading this first chapter. This story is not related to my other Victoria's series, but it's been runing around in my mind all the time while I was writing my first fanfiction in this fandom... I know it's nothing new, soulmates and stuff like that, but I got so enamoured with this ship and it seemed so unfair that they simply could not be... so I thought it was a good excuse to dust off one of my favourite Plato's myth, and really, the story begged me to be written... I hope you'll enjoy! And as always, all feedbacks are more than welcome :)


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